


Sunsets and Whiskey

by BlackAquoKat



Series: Law & Disorder [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Abe the Detective - Freeform, Nonbinary Character, Other, Who Killed Markiplier - Freeform, Y/N District Attorney - Freeform, before the events of wkm, my DA has a backstory, pre-wkm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackAquoKat/pseuds/BlackAquoKat
Summary: In which the future District Attorney meets a kindred spirit in the form of an intrepid detective.





	Sunsets and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, this is an alternate timeline from the "Ours to Choose" series. No love triangles to be found in these works, just painful misunderstandings, but that comes later. Anyway, this is basically an origin story for the DAtective pairing in my fanon and it takes place before the events of WKM by at least a year. Enjoy!

Once upon a time, you would have made another unexpected friend.

Though there would always be the naysayers shouting gospel about having someone such as yourself in such a powerful, public position (you’re not the DA just yet, still just an assistant to the current one, but you’re moving up, you’re earning respect, on behalf of your boss if not your fellow attorneys), the public adores you overall for your sense of justice and open communication. Not to mention your charitable donations to various causes, especially for the numerous veterans who returned from the war.

Mostly, however, you are known for your renowned ability to close the cases that come your way. Sure, they have been fairly minor so far in regards to importance, but you’ve been working your way up in the quality of assignments given to you by your superior.

It is thanks to your first high-profile case that you first meet him.

When the current DA summons you to his office, you are more than surprised to see a member of the police department standing in front of his desk.

He is introduced to you as Detective Abe Lincoln (someone’s parents were quite the patriots), and you are informed that the two of you will be working a case in court together. It involves a high-player of one of the most dangerous gangs in the city.

At first, you are honored, because working directly with the cops means you are being trusted with heavier workloads and with sensitive materials which could mean a promotion one day, not to mention a reprieve from the more sleep-worthy cases about petty thievery and minor embezzlement.

This positive feeling about your position lasts about until the Detective begins to speak when you upon arriving at your desk.

Upon first appearances, the Detective is cocky, dismissive, and does not know when to _shut up_. He gets distracted by the most minute details (which normally wouldn’t be so irritating, but you have a job to do, one you’ve worked long and hard for, and you want to get it _done_ , not discuss the weird pigmentation of the victim’s toes), makes rather thoughtless comments about his precinct, and all in all leaves you wondering at the quality of detectives at the local police.

The Detective must sense your irritation, but only does after about a half hour of inane discussion of the perpetrator’s lip mole. “Am I bothering you, pal?”

You lips press together to keep the biting comments trapped behind your teeth. Once the words are properly swallowed, you say, “Detective, I am merely hoping to get through your case as thoroughly as possible—”

“Don’t patronize me!” he interrupts, loud enough to draw the attention of a few other attorneys. “I can tell when I’m not wanted! Look, if you’ve got a problem with me—”

You slam your pencil down and it stuns him into silence. Your finger jabs at him and keep your voice low but firm. “Listen, I have worked _really_ hard to get to the position I have right now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but _I’m_ not a white man like the rest of the people here, so just becoming an attorney was difficult enough. I appreciate what you do for your city, but if you don’t mind, _Detective_ , I want to make sure we do this right, and I can’t do that if you don’t _focus_.” Your finger lowers and you try for a less intense tone. “We can have a nice chat when I’m not on the job.”

“Hey Detective,” one of your co-workers intervenes, a triumphant gleam in his snake eyes (his name is Connor Smith, but everyone secretly refers to him as the Local Pit Stain for the reasons the name implies), “is everything alright over here?”

_Shit._

You stare down at the file in front of you as the words blend together into meaningless gibberish. Doesn’t matter now. Chances are Pit Stain will report your behavior, kiss-ass snitch that he is, and you’ll get kicked off your first real case on the first _goddamn day—_

“Everything’s fine,” the Detective says, and your gaze jerks up to him. “We’re just going over the details of the case to make sure everything is crystal clear for the court. Would you mind leaving us be? We have a lot of work to do.”

Pit Stain stares at the Detective, stunned, before stammering an affirmative and rushing back to his desk.

The Detective looks back at you and chuckles at your astonishment. “I prefer honesty to kiss-asses.”

The corner of your lip twitches. “Something we have in common then.”

“Looks like it.”

After that the two of you return to the file and iron out the rest of the details before finally bidding each other farewell.

You decide, perhaps, that Detective Abe Lincoln may not be so bad, if you can keep him from talking so much about what the inside of the corpse’s mouth smells like.

At the very least, you learn later as the court case, Abe is a good testifying witness, and between the two of you along with three other eyewitnesses, one more bad guy is off the streets of this great city.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, you run into the Detective again at your favorite pub. More accurately, you walk into the police department having a rather animated celebration, though you’re not sure why, nor were you aware this was a cop bar.

“Hey, if it isn’t my new favorite attorney!” Abe greets far too enthusiastically than you would have expected, with a clap on your shoulder and a brief but tight hug. You can barely hear him over the raucous singing of his fellow officers.

“Um…hi?” You pull your hat off and loosen your purple scarf, the warm air of the pub doing wonders for the lost feeling in your cheeks.

“C’mon over, I’ll buy you a drink. What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey.”

The Detective stops for a moment and lifts an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?”

You cross your arms in lieu of a response.

“Fair enough.” He summons the bartender. “A shot of whiskey, please! Put it on my tab.”

“Why the sudden generosity?” you inquire after the bartender leaves.

Abe adjusts his coat and sits on the barstool with a groan. “If it wasn’t for you, this celebration wouldn’t be happening right now! What took you so long to get here? I’ve been waiting for—”

“Wait, _that’s_ what all this is for? Our case?”

Now that he mentioned it…you see your fellow attorneys in here too. They’re off in a corner laughing with other detectives.

Did they…did those assholes _actually…_?

Abe’s brow furrows. “Wait a second. Are you telling me no one invited you to the celebration of _your own case?_ Then…hold on, how are you _here?”_

You shrug weakly, staring at your coworkers with trembling hands. “It’s my favorite bar. I was feeling a little down and…” Your voice trails off and you just _hate_ the lump that’s forming in your throat because this is a new low, even for these idiots (thank God, it doesn’t look like the DA is here).

It doesn’t help that the main reason you’re feeling down is because you've returned from visiting the cemetery with Mom (you _just_ dropped her off at her home, you need to visit her more often, she gets lonely in that house), so your nerves are already exposed enough without this bullshit. The _last_ thing you need is to burst into tears in a room full of people you’ll be working with in the foreseeable future—

“Are you _shitting me?”_

The Detective’s outrage jolts you out of your spiraling thoughts, but he isn’t talking to you.

(You completely missed the growing anger in his eyes as he witnessed the light diminish from your eyes at the realization of your colleague’s behavior, a moment you will never recall but would have brought you comfort had you witnessed it.)

He’s shouting at the stunned attorneys in the back, drawing the attention of the entire pub, which is exactly what you did _not_ want.

“Detective—”

He storms to over to your coworkers and jabs an accusing finger in their faces. “You jackasses didn’t invite the person who actually _closed_ the damn case in the first place?”

Collectively, they all pale four shades lighter and look pointedly at Pit Stain, who looks as though he wants to high-tail it for the exit. “Well…I didn’t know how to get a hold of you so I—”

“You liar!” one of the nicer lawyers accuses (Paolo, he lets you know when the coffee maker is free and asks if you’ve had your break yet). He looks at you in distress. “I was just asking where you were and he said you—that you said you didn’t want to come, I had _no idea_ —”

Pit Stain stutters more excuses as he stares fearfully at the Detective, “Well, I didn’t say _that,_ I said…well, I said I couldn’t get a hold of you, so I just assumed—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Abe interrupts. “You were attempting to harass us while we were working the case the other day, I know _exactly_ the kind of idiot you are, and I suggest you get out of here before I—”

“Detective,” you cut off, stepping in front of him, “if you don’t mind, I can handle this.” You’ll thank him later for snapping you out of the utter disappointment and humiliation of the situation.

First, you need to deal with Pit Stain, so you stare down the bastard and gain a strange satisfaction out of watching him squirm in front of all your colleagues.

“You’re not worth my time,” you finally say to him. “I have better things to worry about than your pathetic attempts to undermine me.” A deep breath in, out, and the tension abandons your shoulders. You turn your gaze around the room, avoiding the eyes of everyone there, watching you. “I’m not in the mood for a celebration. I’ll see all of you on Monday.”

With that proclamation, you turn on your heel and stride out of the bar with what remains of your dignity.

You’re only several blocks away before you hear a familiar voice.

“Hey, wait up!”

You groan and turn to face Abe, turning your face against a gust of cold wind. “What do you want?” you bite out as you pull your hat back onto your head.

He’s holding up a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other. “We didn’t get to have our drink, and we _are_ the ones who did the heavy-lifting.”

Well…this is unexpected. “Where did you—”

“I hurried and bought it from behind the bar, I didn’t want you to get too far away.”

You stare at him a moment longer in utter disbelief before just taking the two glasses from his hands. A silent acceptance of his offer. Maybe…maybe this doesn’t have to be such a shitty day after all.

Abe clears his throat a little (was he hoping you wouldn’t accept? No, that’s stupid, he’s the one who chased you down and paid for whiskey on the go). “I guess…we can go have this at my precinct or something—”

“Actually…” You bite your lip, hesitating for a brief moment before braving forward, “I know the perfect place.”

 

* * *

 

“The pier works, too, I guess,” the Detective says, ten minutes later as the two of you exit your car.

He follows you to a bench about a half mile from your parking spot, where the clearest view of the painted sunset lies.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been here before,” he muses aloud as he opens the whiskey. “I mean, I’ve been to the pier a few times, but I don’t think I’ve ever been to this specific spot.”

“You’ve probably been down there,” you point down to the dock sticking out into the river about five miles from your position. “It’s more popular because that’s where the food carts are, and the seagulls too.”

“So why come here?”

“I like to be alone, most days. Somewhere I can hear myself think, where I don’t think I’m likely to run into my colleagues.” You move your hand when Abe starts pouring your drink.

“And other days?”

You lift the glass up to your nose and the oak scent fills your senses as you take a deep sip. When you finish, you sigh and smile. “I like sunsets. This is the best view for them.”

The two of you stare out over the horizon, the orange highlighting bright pinks and the muted blues as the light fractures over the rippling water. A light breeze blows your hair against your forehead and you lift your scarf a hint to cover more of your neck.

“I see what you mean,” he acknowledges after several minutes of silent appreciation. “You said you were feeling down earlier. Before you came to the pub. Mind if I ask why?”

Part of you wants to play cryptic because, really, it’s a personal question, and it sounds like he wouldn’t be too offended if you didn’t answer.

But the bigger parts of you, the parts you hadn’t known still existed until Damien became your best friend, remind you that opening up to people once in a while doesn’t have to be a terrible thing. Besides, the Detective did stick up for you in his own weird, _intrepid_ way, you figure it won’t hurt too much.

“I was…I was at the cemetery.” You keep your eyes on the horizon, finger tracing the rim of your glass. “My dad was killed in action seven years ago today.”

Judging but the choke of his drink you witness out of the corner of your eyes, he doesn’t expect such an answer. “I…I, erm…” he wipes the dribble from his chin with the sleeve of his coat. “My condolences.”

“Much appreciated,” you accept. A sigh escapes you. “Look, you don’t have to do this.”

“What, drink? C’mon, a little whiskey never—”

“No, I meant…” you gesture between the two of you, “this. If you want to go back and have a proper celebration with other detectives—”

“Look here, Friend,” he interrupts, “like I said before, we’re the ones who actually solved and actually took care of the damn case, and to be perfectly honest, I was getting a little bored back there anyway.”

“I wouldn’t think this would be _less_ boring to anyone else,” you point out, not unkindly.

When he continues to gaze in your direction, you finally look back at him. His eyes are dark brown, the kind one could get lost in if they didn’t keep their guard up. “Something on your mind?”

Abe looks down and clenches his fists. “Fine then,” he growls as he reaches into his coat pocket.

“What did _I_ do?”

He doesn’t answer as he pulls out his badge and about ten pictures of him and different men unfold.

You blink at the pictures. “Um…who are these guys?”

“My old partners in the force,” he grumbles. “They’re all dead.”

“…oh.” That’s a _lot_ of dead partners. “…‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t seem like the best thing to say,” you finally blurt out.

Abe chuckles without humor as he sips his glass. “Nah, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He folds the pictures away and sticks the badge back into his pocket. “Each one died each death more tragic than before…” he says it mechanically, as though it’s something he’s grown used to explaining. “Hard to enjoy time with my fellow detectives when they keep avoiding me like the plague, thinking my little ‘curse’ may extend to them.”

You can’t help but snort at that. “Superstitious bastards…”

A more genuine laugh rumbles from his chest. “I can’t exactly blame them. It’s far too many to be a coincidence…but anyway, I didn’t much appreciate their company when I could be spending time with someone who seems to know what it’s like to be…” Abe trails off, fingers tapping in a staccato against his glass.

“Isolated?” you suggest quietly.

“…yeah. Yeah, isolated.”

The two of you fall quiet in order to watch the warm colors of the sky fade into dark clouds as you each empty your glasses and refill them once more.

“If you ever wish to, uh, talk about them,” you begin slowly, “you’re partners, I mean, you can give me a call.” You pull your card out of the inside of your coat and hand it to him without making eye contact. The situation is odd enough without trying to figure out what face one makes when making an offer like this.

As the heartbeats pass and he doesn’t take the card, you almost pull it back before he finally plucks it from your fingertips. “Thanks…” Abe reaches into the pocket of his own coat and pulls out a card of his own. “I’d like to offer the same, if you ever need to talk about your old man.”

A smile twitches at your lips as you accept his card and stuff it into your outer pocket. “Thanks,” you echo.

He nods grudgingly and you take that as a cue. As you stand, you down the last of your whiskey. “Want to walk for a bit before I give you a ride home?”

“Sure, why not?”

 

* * *

 

After you drop him off at his home and later on enter your own house with exhaustion dragging your limbs and sleep pressing in on your eyes, your mind lingers on the detective, and the snap judgment you made of him upon your first meeting.

Is he an oddball?

Yes.

Will he grate on your nerves in the future when you have to work together again?

Most certainly.

Is he a decent man who seems worth befriending?

…yeah.

Now if you can get those ridiculous doe-eyes of his out of your head, the night would improve dramatically…


End file.
